


An Evening in Tirion

by StarSpray



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Tirion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 02:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12973866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarSpray/pseuds/StarSpray
Summary: While wandering around Tirion, Tuor meets Finrod.





	An Evening in Tirion

**Author's Note:**

> written for vardasvapors' prompt: "any elf + human and 'sharing a drink'"

Tirion was overwhelming–a great, sprawling city shining atop a hill in the sunlight. But it was precisely the same kind of overwhelming that Gondolin had been, and that in itself was strangely comforting. And there were even parts of it that were familiar, since Gondolin had been made in its image, as best as could be managed amid the mountains of Beleriand.

Unlike Gondolin, however, there was a feeling of emptiness in Tirion. Even now after the War of Wrath, there were entire districts of empty homes and shuttered businesses; so many who had once lived there had died in Middle-earth, or had returned only as far as Tol Eressëa, or lingered still with Gil-galad in what remained of Ossiriand. It made wandering the streets a more melancholy experience than it had been when Tuor had first come to Gondolin. 

He did it anyway, either with Idril or by himself when she was otherwise occupied–as she often was, getting to know all over again as an adult the relatives she had not seen since she had been a child.

On this day he found himself in a district occupied entirely, it seemed, by weavers. He had stopped to watch, intrigued, as a pair of young women worked a tapestry, their hands flying over the loom as they wove intricate patterns from dozens of colored threads, some of which flashed with gold or silver, and others dyed with colors so vivid they seemed luminous. 

When he finally tore himself away, Tuor glanced skyward and realized how late it was getting. In the east he saw a bright star rising–Eärendil departing, bearing Elwing’s Silmaril. He stopped to watch, pride swelling in his chest, as it always did whenever he heard so much as a mention of his son. 

“It’s a lovey sight, isn’t it?” asked someone at his elbow. Tuor turned to find Finrod standing there, also gazing up at the star. “I always like to watch Gil-Estel’s rising,” Finrod continued. “My part in its story was brief and messy, but it turned out well in the end.”

Brief and messy was, Tuor thought, perhaps one of the greatest understatements he had yet heard.

But before he could say anything, Finrod turned to him and smiled. “Would you care for a drink?”

There was an eating and drinking establishment down the street, where they served light, sweet wines that were not particularly to Tuor’s liking, and stronger-flavored brandy which was. Somewhat to Tuor’s surprise, Finrod also favored the brandy. 

They sat in companionable silence for a time, in a table in the corner, watching the other patrons go about their business, laughing and chatting with each other and the owners. After a while someone pulled out a flute, and someone else a lute. 

Finrod did not ask Tuor what he thought of Tirion, or of Valinor. Instead they spoke of Gondolin, and mutual friends they had among Turgon’s people, and of Turgon himself. Finrod spoke a little more of Beren, and others of the House of Bëor that he had known.

“May I ask you something?” Tuor said, after several glasses of brandy; in another corner someone had started singing a very merry drinking song.

“Of course,” Finrod said. He looked none the worse for drink, except there was a shine in his eyes that had not been there before.

“Someone was singing the Lay of Leithian the other day,” Tuor said, “and of course they sang of you–”

“I really do not wish to speak of my battle with Sauron–” Finrod began, shifting in his seat.

“ _Oh_ , no. That isn’t what I meant–”

Finrod tilted his head, a few strands of hair sliding freely over his cheek. “What, then?”

“Dungalef? _Really?_ ”

Everyone else in the room turned, startled, at Finrod’s sudden burst of laughter, bright and merry as a sunbeam breaking through grey clouds. “Beren said nearly the same thing. It was not, I admit,” he said finally, calming and wiping tears from the corner of an eye, “my best moment. But we cannot all have Túrin Turambar’s talent for renaming ourselves in a hurry.”

Tuor shook his head, smiling. “No, we cannot,” he agreed. “And I suppose it _did_ work.”

“Yes, and I imagine Sauron was rather embarrassed when it all came out later. Or at least, I like to think he was.”


End file.
